


you give me a heart-on

by kattyshack



Series: snowflakes [13]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Asexual Sansa, Asexuality, Dirty Talk, F/M, Kissing, Love Confessions, Mild Sexual Content, Pining, Romance, Sensuality, Touching, em dashes parentheses run-ons galore, we don’t end sentences at a reasonable point we die like men
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-03
Updated: 2018-10-03
Packaged: 2019-07-24 13:33:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,370
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16176110
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kattyshack/pseuds/kattyshack
Summary: Sansa’s looking for someone to satisfy her heart, and — if all goes according to her straight-to-the-point plan — she thinks she very well may have found that someone in Jon.(Jon, for his part, would most assuredly agree.)-based on a nonny’s request for 5+ headcanons: jonsa + asexual sansa-





	you give me a heart-on

**Author's Note:**

> a/n: i thought about calling this ‘ace of hearts,’ but i wanted to save that title for an original romance centering on an asexual mc, so instead you guys get the ‘hard-on’ pun title. anyway on that note, i’m ace and much of what you’ll read within is based on my personal preferences, but aces don’t live in a vacuum so we all vary, regardless of how strict our label might seem
> 
> also i know i’m in the pits with all my wips, there is just A Lot going on with me so i’ll get back to them when i can, just rest assured nothing’s abandoned and you can absolutely shoot me asks on tumblr @obiwan-katnobi with questions about them or even snippets, bc god knows i have lots of those to spare (all my wips have SO MANY notes and i’ve got a ton of half-done oneshots so yeah for real hit me up if you’d like)

Sansa Stark has a plan.

It’s foolproof, in theory, though she can admit that there are plenty of contingencies that might disprove this in practice. Because, you know, _in theory_ she should have had at least one healthy relationship by now — she’s twenty-five, for god’s sake — but that had never panned out. So, realistically, this might not go according to plan, either.

But then, Sansa had always been more of a romantic than a realist, anyway.

Which is probably how she’d gotten herself into so many less-than-ideal — and isn’t _that_ putting it lightly? — relationships. Because she kept faith that everything would work out, that _love conquers all_ … and, yes, alright, so she still believes that, but what she’s learned is that it takes more than just her own ideals to make a relationship work. After all, Harry hadn’t cared about what she wanted (nor had he cared about basic human decency, apparently); no, all he’d cared about was her prominent lack of a sex drive, and the toll it had taken on him.

“This whole asexual… thing, San, it’s kind of a drag,” he’d said when she’d caught him with his tongue down another woman’s throat. (And, yes, that is precisely how Harry kissed, and if Sansa hadn’t been so angry she would have felt sorry for the other woman, truly.) “I like you and everything, but a guy needs sex, you know? We can still go out, but if you want this to be exclusive, you’re just… you’re asking too much.”

As if she’d want to go out with him at all after that.

“He used my sexuality — my _a_ sexuality — as justification to cheat on me,” she moans to Arya the next morning. The words are muffled as she’s got her face buried in Jon’s pillow, which smells so strongly of his aftershave that it’s making her heart flip-flop all over the place.

Gods, but of course this is where she’d found her sister, playing video games in Jon’s room, of all places. The last thing Sansa needs right now is to compromise her wounded pride with her always-confusing feelings about Jon sodding Snow. Not that that had stopped her from falling onto his bed in a state of the utmost ennui, but _still_.

“Harry’s a dick,” Arya consoles her. She’d even let Jon pause the game (though she wouldn’t have been able to stop him, anyway, because Jon tends to drop whatever he’s doing whenever Sansa shows up; at least this time he didn’t break another coffee mug). “You can’t’ve fancied him that much.”

“That’s not the point, is it?” Sansa says, not bothering to contest the fact because it was true, she’s suffering more from a bruised ego than a broken heart. “I mean, what happens when it’s someone I _do_ fancy ‘that much’? That won’t matter when they find out I’ve got no will to fuck them.”

“Sansa!” Arya gasps, scandalized. “Language!”

“Oh, shut up. I’m _upset_.”

Jon’s hand curls around her ankle, and Sansa nearly jumps out of her skin at the contact. She turns her head out of the pillow to face him, sat on the floor near her feet, his bespectacled gaze fixed intently — and earnestly too, maybe? — on her own, bloodshot from frustrated tears.

“The right guy’s not going to be bothered,” he promises her, so sincerely Sansa thinks he must be ‘the right guy,’ because surely only The One would think to say something like that. “He’s going to ask what you want, and he’s going to care about what it is.”

“Yeah, Jon,” Arya pipes up before Sansa can so much as swallow the butterflies that have fluttered all the way up into her throat, “so go on and ask Sansa what she wants, then.”

Jon’s ears go pink and his grip around Sansa’s ankle tightens nervously. “I — well — I mean — for fuck’s sake, Arya,” he huffs irritably, “just… shut it.”

Well, that’s not much in the way of denial, is it? Sansa thinks. Jon’s definitely The One.

She had suspected as much in the past, but others had swooped in, all so seemingly gallant and dreamy and all the rest, that she’d been properly distracted from the reserved, often broody family friend. Jon had never made a move, and at the time Sansa thought that to be indicative of his disinterest — his romantic disinterest, anyway, as he was plenty attentive and observant to her otherwise, just… platonically so, she’d thought.

“You thought wrong,” Arya has told her, more than once, but after so many crash-and-burns in her love life, Sansa hadn’t dared hope.

Now, though… Well, Jon’s not making excuses, he’s only telling Arya to _shut it_. That’s got to mean something.

Or maybe Sansa’s just desperate. _But._ She’s willing to take that leap — hence, The Plan.

It’s not an especially elaborate or clever plan, even; rather, its foolproof quality is in its simplicity and its honesty. Sansa knows precisely what she’s going to say and how she’s going to say it. That should be enough to get her past her reservations and anxieties. An outline is the first step in avoiding stress-induced panic attacks. Right? Right.

…probably.

Perhaps a drink will help. Good thing she planned this for the group’s pub night. Plenty of drinks available to wash down the worries and what-ifs. _Absolutely you can do this_ , Sansa tells herself as she knocks back a shot of tequila. She catches Jon’s eye and he shoots her a little grin, the one that makes the corners of his eyes crinkle, and — damn it, she has to knock back another.

“Hitting it a bit hard tonight, are we?” Jon says lightly, teasingly, when he sidles up next to her. Their elbows bump and Sansa nearly _melts_. “I know Arya’s supposed to be DD, but she’s snogging Gendry outside, so you want me to give you a ride back to yours later?”

 _Oh, you could give me a ride, all right_ — for the love of god, maybe she needs to stop drinking. Her thoughts are taking a far too lascivious turn for someone whose relationship problems seem to begin and end with her asexuality. Jon is really messing with her head.

Well. Jon, and the tequila.

Also her questionable emotional state.

_Sigh._

Feelings, Sansa decides, are _complicated_.

“Sansa?” Jon is studying her with some cross between amusement and concern, that small smile back in place and a slightly furrowed brow. He nudges her elbow with his again and, god, she just wants to _die_. “You alright?”

 _“No,”_ she admits before she can think better of it. “No, I’m not.” 

And there goes the smile, snuffed out like a candle flame on a too-breezy night. Jon hates when she’s upset, Sansa remembers, a fact that shouldn’t come as a shock but does, simply because she’s more used to her love interests causing the upset than caring about it.

“Oh, gods, I’m damaged goods, aren’t I?” she says out loud, appalled by her tequila-induced train of sorely melancholy thought.

“What?” Equally appalled, though a bit more in the dark, Jon’s hand covers hers and squeezes to get her full attention. “Sansa… no, love, of course you’re not.”

She groans, and hits her forehead against the bar. She’s usually much more dignified than this, but tequila and feelings have gotten the best of her tonight. “Oh, don’t — _don’t_ call me that, you’re already too perfect, it’s all hard enough without you calling me _love_ in that — that _voice_ of yours —”

Jon chuckles. It’s a rich, husky thing that stirs the loose tendrils of her hair and tickles her cheek and _and_ — “What’s wrong with my voice, then, _love_?”

Sansa’s hand twitches under his, but he doesn’t let up. “Now you’re just doing it on purpose.”

“A little,” he admits. “But maybe you should tell me what you’re talking about, exactly?”

Another groan, but she’d told herself that she could do this and Sansa is determined to follow through. _No stone unturned_ and all that. Plus, Jon’s thumb stroking gentle circles against the back of her hand is making her bloody nervous, isn’t it, and nerves always make Sansa talk too much.

“I just…” She sighs, heavy and resigned and in something of a rush as she raises her head to look at him. A mistake, perhaps, because he looks so _lovely_ in his specs and his manbun and just the right amount of scruff around his very pretty mouth. “Oh, this makes me feel dreadfully selfish, but I’m _tired_ of not having what I want. I don’t ask for much. I just want someone who wants to hold my hand, like this —” she lifts their joined hands for emphasis “— and I want that to be good enough for them. I want someone who cares about what I need, that I can’t just _go at it_ , I need lots of kissing and — and _touching_ , but not just a hand shoved up my skirt, I need it to be more… _more_ , you know?”

Jon’s throat bobs when he swallows, hard. His ears go pink and he’s got to clear his throat before he says, “Yeah, I — yeah, I know.” His voice is still rough.

“I need someone who’ll talk to me,” Sansa continues, because she’s come too far to stop it now. “I need to hear it, what they want and what’s happening, I need to feel like they want me for more than just whatever Harry and Joffrey wanted me for. They didn’t care about any of that, you knew them, but I think — I think _you’d_ care, the way I care about you, and maybe you already do and just…”

She lifts their hands again, as if that says it all. “I want _this_.”

Jon squeezes her fingers again — it seems an instinct, almost, _perhaps_ — and his throat bobs again, too. Sansa wonders if he means to say something to her frenzied declaration. She wonders if she’s scared him off, but no, surely he wouldn’t be holding onto her so tightly if he didn’t want this just as much?

“Sansa, I…” His voice cracks on her name, it actually _breaks_. He looks down at their hands, then back to her, and he licks his lips in a way Sansa thinks might be nervous or subconsciously alluring or _both_ is a distinct possibility. “Let’s… why don’t we sober you up before I answer that?”

Well, it’s no grand romantic gesture, Sansa supposes, but… maybe it is, really, she amends privately when Jon adds, “Only I want you to be sure, and I — _I_ can’t be sure that you’re sure unless I get a pot of coffee in you first, if you don’t mind?”

“Yeah.” Sansa nods, and bites back her smile before it can split her face in two. Because _yeah_ , indeed, that might be the most romantic thing she’s ever heard.

 

* * *

 

An hour and three mugs of coffee later, Sansa’s not feeling quite as self-assured.

“Alright?” Jon asks, with another one of those soft smiles he must save especially for her. He hands her another mug and settles back on the bed with her.

Sansa nods, murmuring her thanks into another sip of coffee she doesn’t really need. Sitting on Jon’s bed — which smells of his aftershave and the remnants of her perfume from just a few days ago — with him did plenty to sober her up. Now she’s just… twitchy.

“Have I got you good and sober yet?” he wants to know. His hand flexes atop his thigh, so Sansa takes comfort in the fact that he’s twitchy, too.

“Just about.” The least she can do is offer him a reassuring smile of her own. “I’m feeling quite sober and very stupid, so job well done. Not the stupid bit, I mean, that’s all on me, but —”

Jon frowns. _A pity to upend such a nice smile._ “What’ve you got to feel stupid about?”

Sansa sighs, looking fixedly into her mug as she runs a thumb along the rim, just to have something to do with her hands. “Jon, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said all that, back at the pub. I’ve been feeling sorry for myself and I shouldn’t have dumped it all on you. It’s not your job to make me feel better.”

“And what if I want to make you feel better?”

 _Oh._ Sansa swallows, but the butterflies won’t be contained so well this time. She certainly can’t look at him _now_. “I, um —”

“Did you mean it? All those things you said?”

There’s really no taking it back now, and what’s more is that Sansa doesn’t want to, no matter how embarrassed she might be in retrospect. She’d made good on her plan, perhaps not as eloquently as she would have liked, but what’s done is done. Taking it back now would only put her right back where she’d started. And then what would have been the point of embarrassing herself? It would have been for _nothing_ , and that’s a blow to her pride that Sansa doesn’t think she could shake.

“Yes,” she tells him, eyes on her coffee still. “Yes, I meant it.”

“Then —” Jon plucks the mug from her grasp and sets it aside, then chucks her under the chin so she’ll look at him “— there’s nothing to be embarrassed about.”

He’s smiling again, but his eyes are dark with an intent Sansa can’t quite place. She’s about to crack a joke, to say _Are you sure about that?_ , when Jon follows up his purposeful gaze with the careful stroke of his knuckles down her arm. It’s a light, barely-there touch that makes Sansa shudder and her words fall to dust on her tongue.

“Is this alright?” Jon asks, his voice rough the way it had been at the pub, when Sansa had spilled all her secrets for him. “Is this what you wanted?”

Too caught up between shock and delight, Sansa can only nod her assent. _Yes yes yes oooh yes —_

“Good.” The word is accompanied by a shaky breath as Jon spreads his fingers over her skin. “Because this is what I want, too.”

_Yes yes yes oh definitely absolutely yes…_

His touch continues as carefully as it had begun, slow and soft and measured, as he takes in the way she breathes, the flush of her skin, the darkening of her eyes, in response to him. Sansa feels tingly all over, like Jon’s fingertips are the source of some electrical current that he’s embedding into every abbey of her body, and it’s only her arm he’s touched so far.

He slips down her shoulder, rubbing his thumb into the crease of her elbow, down and down, stopping to explore at every freckle, down to caress the underside of her wrist… Jon’s eyes track his own movements before raising to meet hers.

“Can I —” he licks his lips, leans in just a bit “— could I kiss your neck?”

“Do you want to?” _Stupid. Of course he wants to, it’s why he asked._ But Sansa’s not used to them asking, and she wonders what Jon will have to say about it.

He doesn’t hesitate to tell her “Very much,” and the deep timbre of his voice is betrayed only by the slight whine he emits at the tailend of his confession. “Very, _very_ much, if you’ll let me.”

Sansa responds with her fingers twisted in his curls, tugging him forward. She just manages to catch his grin before it’s tasting the spot behind her ear.

His mouth is just as slow and steady as his hands. Jon’s breath shakes and stutters when his lips part against her skin. It makes Sansa’s pulse jump, and higher still when his tongue laves lightly around her earlobe.

On a deep inhale, Jon pushes a hand through her hair and murmurs, “You smell so good. Your perfume’s been on my pillow for days. I’ve hardly had you in my bed at all and I’ve still missed you in it.”

He pauses his ministrations, panting when he double-checks, “Is that alright to say?”

“Perfect,” Sansa assures him, breathy and needy. Her own lips graze the scruff on his cheek and she feels his body flex towards her in response. “Keep going, you’re perfect.”

Emboldened by her praise, Jon’s kisses grow firmer, his hands more insistent as they trace her arms, down to her hands where he plays with her fingers, around her back to toy with the curling ends of her hair, back around to map the length of her thighs…

“I want to touch all of you,” he whispers into her jaw, as his mouth takes a purposeful path towards hers. His breath ghosts against her lips, a tantalizing half-inch away, and he all but begs her, “Sansa, let me kiss you.”

She nods — it’s all she can do, and it’s enough for Jon as he _mmmph_ ’s into her mouth when he takes it with his own. Their first kiss is a hungry, near-desperate thing, pouring relief and _finally_ and _at last, this is what I’ve been waiting for, this is what I want_.

Their lips cling and Jon’s hands hover, unsure, at the hem of her top until Sansa encourages him, “Go on, you can touch me.” All the more slowly still, he rucks up her shirt to smooth his fingertips over her naked skin.

“So soft,” he marvels, almost to himself as he explores the planes of her stomach, the curve of her waist. His mouth travels down to her neck once more while his hands continue to inch her shirt upwards, teasing and torturous and gently, sweetly, reverently, and all sorts of things Sansa had come to think no one would make her feel. But Jon… Jon does it as though it’s the most natural thing in the world, to memorize her, indulge her, _worship_ her.

The hem of her shirt and the press of Jon’s mouth meet in the middle, just beneath the band of her bra. He holds her by the waist, fingers splayed so that he can feel as much of her as possible all at once. He nudges her back, flat on the bed, as he rolls over her, and glances up from where he’s busy tasting the line of her stomach.

“Okay?” he questions, sincerity laden in just two syllables. One hand moves down to tug at her zipper. “I meant it when I said _everywhere_ , but only if you want.”

The prospect is a tempting one. It’s been so long, maybe _never_ , since she’s felt good. Jon wants to make up for that, he wants to make her feel good, and Sansa wants to let him. No one’s ever so much as offered before, always too concerned with their own pleasure to bother with hers — _But you’re asexual_ , they would argue, as if they knew better than she did what that meant. _It won’t make a difference to you._

But of course it would have made a difference, if only they would have _tried_. They never did, and Sansa’s… well, she’s curious.

“What about you?”

Jon chuckles; his breath tickles, a delightful contrast to the roughness of his beard. “Trust me, love, this is for me, too.”

“But you won’t —” Sansa squirms, and Jon holds fast to her hips “— _you know_.”

“ _Ooh_ , yes, I will,” Jon promises, possibly even more sincere than he’d been a moment ago. “Believe me, if you come, I’ll come too.”

That doesn’t sound right. Not that Sansa doesn’t believe him, but it had certainly never worked that way for her.

“I want this to be good for you,” she tries, because she, at least, cares where her previous partners hadn’t.

“It’s already good for me.” Jon pops the button on her jeans and yanks the zipper down. He scrapes a blunt fingernail over the satin of her underthings and releases a low, guttural groan. “ _Fuck_ — trust me, love, this is —” his mouth drops to tug at the waistband of her panties, like he just can’t help himself “— Sansa, you’re _exquisite_ , don’t you worry about me.”

His tongue flicks down to tease the sensitive skin below her navel, and he licks a stripe down and down, peeling back the satin with his teeth as he goes.

“Tell me to stop if you want,” he offers, “but don’t tell me so just because you think that’s what I want to hear. It’s _not_.”

It’s not what Sansa wants to tell him, either, so she sticks with what they both want — a foreign but deliciously intriguing concept — and says, “I want to try.”

A devilish smirk tips the corners of Jon’s lips. “Thank the gods,” he murmurs, and buries that grinning mouth between her thighs.

For a moment, the sensation is too new to be anything but strange, something that needs getting used to — but then —

 _“Oh!”_ Sansa slaps a hand over her mouth to stifle her cry, one part surprise, a greater part pleasure. Jon’s curls brush the vee of her legs as he shakes his head, then licks up her slit to get her to make that sound again.

“Don’t go getting shy on me now.” He plucks open-mouthed kisses just above her mound. “Let me hear it, love.”

It wouldn’t be right to deny him, really — he’s only asking for an honest response, when you think about it, and open, raw honesty had been the cornerstone of The Plan to begin with — and Sansa can’t help herself besides.

He’s just too _good_.

This must be what it’s meant to be like, Sansa thinks as Jon continues to love her up-the-wall with his mouth. It’s his hands stroking her skin, taking her behind the knee and hitching her calf up so he can taste her deeper. It’s the scrape of his nails, digging into her hip, her waist, holding her steady even as he drives her hip-bucking wild. It’s his eyes, flicking upwards to watch her, to make sure he’s doing this right for her. It’s the words that spill, husky and encouraging and imploring, from between his ever-swollen lips.

Jon makes her toes curl, and _that’s_ what’s meant to happen. No dread or impatience or feeling like she’s only just begun an endless, tiresome chore — no, this is all tender care and _more_ , much more, than some one-off to keep her happy until she feels another urge.

Sansa’s hand twists into the bedsheets, but not for long when Jon takes it and shoves it into his hair.

“I wanna feel how you want me.” His tongue circles her clit and sucks, once, making her gasp and her fingers tighten. “Just like that.”

He concentrates on her clit further, and his gaze stays concentrated on her face. And _just like that_ … When Jon mutters in words rough and honeyed all at once, “You’re so pretty when I’ve got my mouth on your cunt,” Sansa snaps like bubble gum — fast and sweet and a little surprising. Jon’s got to wrap his arms around her legs to keep her from floating, to keep her under him as he continues his sensual movements, all rolling tongue and stroking hands, riding along and then coaxing her down from her high.

Her heart is racing, fit to burst, even as the fireworks fade and the stars in her eyes aren’t so blinding. One look at Jon’s indulgent smile, though, and Sansa thinks she’ll never be anything less than starry-eyed again.

“That was…” She tries to whistle, but she’s too short on breath to manage it, which only makes Jon smile wider. “Something else.”

“Yeah?” Jon swipes a hand over his mouth, then allows it to drop to trace her waist. He delights in her shiver as his fingertips map the dips of her body. “I thought so, too.”

Sansa lifts a slightly dubious brow. Jon looks pointedly down at his own unbuttoned trousers, loosened to give himself some relief and decidedly damp because he found that relief, all right.

“Told you,” he said. He nabs a quick kiss. “Give me a moment to change.”

It really only does take a moment. Jon’s back in bed with her before Sansa can properly do up her zipper and adjust her shirt.

“Don’t,” he says, and pushes the shirt right back up so he can put his hands (where they belong, if you ask him) on her skin. He tugs her closer, onto her side, so he can rub her lower back. “I’d like to keep you like this awhile longer. All night, might as well, since Arya took Gendry back to yours.”

“What a drag,” Sansa drawls. She runs idle fingers across his beard, right to the upturned tilt of his mouth. “How will I ever manage to pass the time here with you?”

“I’ve got a few, you know, _lusty_ ideas,” Jon admits, and it makes her chuckle, “but…”

He catches her wandering fingers between his own and holds on tight. “I think I’d like to talk to you all night, and just…” Jon trails off, and runs his thumb along her palm as if that says it all. “I’d like to hold your hand, too. And in case you were wondering, all those things I said the other day? About the right guy for you? That’s me. I want that to be me, if that’s… if you want that.”

It had all come out in a rush, much like Sansa’s own confession earlier. Jon presses his lips together to keep himself from babbling on and on, but he needn’t have bothered; Sansa rather likes his babbling. It’s a rare thing, and it’s all hers.

“I do. I mean…” She presses her lips together, too, then presses them to his. “You did hear me talking your ear off at the pub, didn’t you? Don’t tell me I nearly died from embarrassment and you didn’t even notice.”

“I told you, it wasn’t embarrassing.” A relieved sigh escapes Jon’s mouth as he deepens the kiss, slow and languid and, in the end, breathless. He pulls her closer, drops a kiss to her forehead, down to the bridge of her nose… “It was just what I wanted to hear.”

So, as it turns out — for _once_ — Sansa’s plan was foolproof, after all.

_Finally._


End file.
